


Hard Day's Night

by anaeifly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward sharing of feelings, Blow Jobs, Flirting, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, clint doesn't know wtf his feelings are doing, overtired Coulson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 11:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18072479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaeifly/pseuds/anaeifly
Summary: Clint and Natasha are hanging out at Avengers Tower when Agent Coulson, who hasn't slept in three days, shows up. Flirting, cuddling, and semi-accidental bed sharing ensues. Rating is for chapter 2. Clint/Coulson, heavily implied Stuckony.





	Hard Day's Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, everybody! Thanks for joining me here. This is my first Clint/Coulson fic, and I am super excited about it, which is partly why I decided to split into two chapters. (The other reason being that it was six pages long and I wasn't even to the end of the first part yet.) Anywho, this being my first time in this ship, feedback is super appreciated. Also, shout out to crazyjane, who beta read this for me. You rock! Enjoy, guys! ~ana

Clint was pretty certain that every detail of that night was going to be burned into his brain forever.    
  
It was a Saturday night in mid-January, and it was maybe not record breaking cold, but it had to be pretty damn close. Apparently it had been a cold enough day even to keep New York City’s local evildoers from any nefarious acts; it had been vacillating between 1 and 6 degrees all day, and since the sun had set it had been slowly creeping into negative numbers. Clint suspected that not even the most dedicated of villains was willing to risk frostbite for their cause, which worked for him. He and Nat had the weekend off (as much as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ever did, anyway), and Nat had dragged Clint out of HQ at 4:58 the previous afternoon, declaring that it was high time for him to stop moping about Coulson being gone.    
  
“I am not _moping_ ,” Clint sputtered. Because, okay, yes, Coulson had left on an op on Thursday morning and Clint didn’t know where he was going or what the mission was since Coulson had higher security than Clint and Nat, and yes, he was maybe just a tiny bit put out by that turn of events, but moping? He did not do moping. Natasha, of all people, ought to know that. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t even have been bothered by Coulson’s absence at all (...okay, he’d’ve been bothered _less_. Probably.) had it not been for the fact that over the past few weeks the two of them had made a habit of hanging out when their evenings off happened to coincide. Which, come to think of it, had been happening more and more often lately, a fact that Clint had been trying to avoid dwelling on lest he fall into a spiral of confusion and overthinking (or worse, confusing overthinking).     
  
Natasha simply gave him her patented “if you think I’m going to believe that, you’re even dumber than you look” expression and completely ignored his (admittedly rather halfhearted) protests all the way to Stark Tower.    
  
Their timing hadn’t actually been too bad. Bucky and Bruce were apparently at some sort of exhibit at the Met, but Steve and Tony were there, so the four of them had ordered pizza and somehow ended up playing Never Have I Ever and, even more inexplicably, Truth or Dare. Clint found himself unwillingly impressed—he hadn’t actually known that Tony could make _that_ many suggestive comments, or that it was physically possible to blush as much as Steve was while still maintaining an erection. Even drunk, Clint kept feeling like he and Nat should leave before someone ended up pinned up against a wall, because the whole night it seemed like it was only a matter of time.    
  
The next morning (well, sort of--Clint got up around 11:30, so that technically counted, right?), after he’d found Nat in the gym doing ballet stretches with Tony, of all people, and gotten her to make him her hangover cure (it was a secret recipe and Clint wasn’t as young as he used to be, sue him), the two of them had gone off in search of something fun to do without having to leave the tower. They knew from experience that Tony’s idea of fun downtime frequently entailed holing himself up in his lab with Bruce, and as neither Clint nor Natasha had any desire to either help with any experiments or be experimented on themselves, they figured it was best to just stay far away from the two scientists. As for Steve and Bucky, Clint had run into them in the kitchen at a frankly ungodly hour this morning when he’d gone to get a drink of water, seeming to be in the middle of a fairly tense conversation that ceased when he entered the kitchen and resumed in whispers once he’d left. He wasn’t convinced that the conversation didn’t have something to do with Tony, but he was honestly a little too scared (of Bucky, obviously) to ask any questions. Or, actually, even open his mouth. In any case, he hadn’t seen them since, but the tower _was_ fairly huge, so he hadn’t given it too much thought.    
  
Upon being asked, JARVIS directed Clint and Nat to Tony’s game room on the 23rd floor—except “room” didn’t seem like quite the right word, since it went the entire length of the tower on one side. On the other side, interestingly, was one level of Tony’s four-story lab.    
  
The game room was, kind of like Tony himself, almost too much to take in. There was everything a person could possibly want in a game room—air hockey table, pool table, vintage pinball machine, and a slightly absurd number of game consoles, from a Sega to an XBox One. Clint even found an old GameBoy in the corner. He unexpectedly found himself thinking there were definitely worse ways to pass a Saturday afternoon.    
  
He and Natasha decided they had to do as much as humanly possible. The air hockey and pinball went surprisingly fast, and Clint declared a hard pass on the pool, as he’d lost at pool to Nat quite enough in the past, so they moved to the game consoles. They played Mario Kart and Sonic the Hedgehog on the Sega for a while, until around 6 when Tony poked his head in and mentioned that he had ordered Chinese and the two of them made the mistake of joining Tony, Steve, and Bucky in the kitchen to eat. When they got there, Clint noticed that Bruce was rather conspicuously absent, but after five minutes in the kitchen with Tony, Steve, and Bucky, he decided he could entirely understand Bruce’s desire to eat somewhere else.    
  
The sexual tension was very nearly palpable; Clint honestly didn’t have a clue how they could stand it. Even Natasha seemed slightly uncomfortable, and Clint knew for a fact that she’d once had to participate in an orgy to complete a mission.    
  
The worst part, of course, was towards the end of the meal.   
  
“We should totally do fondue after this,” Steve said, out of nowhere. (Or so it seemed to Clint, anyway. He’d been paying an inordinate amount of attention to his food, so it was completely possible that he was wrong.)    
  
Bucky frowned. “I thought fondue was just bread dipped in cheese.”   
  
Steve shrugged nonchalantly, but there was something indefinable about his expression that made Clint immediately distrust him. “Technically, yes. But apparently you can also do chocolate fondue, for dessert. There’s this place I found where you can put pretty much anything in chocolate fondue, so I tried a banana, and...” Steve actually _moaned_ at this. “God. It was _so_ good.”   
  
Clint choked on his General Tso’s chicken. Bucky was grinning. “Okay, we are definitely doing that,” he said excitedly. He paused. “Eating that. Whatever.”   
  
Tony, however, seemed to be in need of a reboot. His expression appeared to have frozen in place, and he hadn’t moved since Steve had finished talking. He was just...staring. At Steve.    
  
“Oh my god,” Natasha said, clearly exasperated. “Get a room, you three.”   
  
That seemed to snap Tony out of it. 

“Without _you_ , Agent Romanoff?” he asked mischievously.    
  
Nat rolled her eyes. “Come on, Clint, I want to finish our game,” she said, dropping her container into Tony’s trash and walking towards the door. Clint was more than happy to follow.    
  
And then...Clint wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, but one of them had found this old PS1 spy game called Syphon Filter, and for some reason they both found it both fun and relaxing. Clint found that he was actually losing himself in the game, in the fakeness of it. It was weird, but also kind of nice.    
  
Then, right around midnight, Coulson showed up.    
  
Clint had no idea why he’d decided to come to the tower instead of going home, or how he’d known where to find Clint and Nat (because god knew there was no way he had just stumbled upon them), but that was just his life, he supposed.    
  
Natasha was actually the one who noticed him first. “Hey, Coulson,” she said, eyes darting to the door and back almost too quickly for Clint to catch—but not quite.    
  
For his part, Clint dropped his controller, earning him a Look from Nat, then paused the game so he could actually turn towards the door—and there Coulson was, dark circles under his eyes, his suit wrinkled and looking faintly dusty. Clint frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked, without really thinking it through.    
  
Coulson’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Clint felt himself blush. He forced himself to not look at Nat to gauge her reaction.    
  


After a second, though, Coulson’s lips twitched upward slightly. “Hello to you too, Agent Barton.” He paused, seeming to put a lot of thought into what to say next. “I’m...well, I’ve been better. But I’ve certainly been worse as well, so.” He shrugged.    
  
Clint flinched. He definitely remembered “worse”. He hoped he hid it, but all of a sudden Coulson’s eyes were locked with his and he knew he hadn’t but somehow he was having trouble _caring_ just then.    
  
Coulson walked over and sat on the couch between Clint and Nat, somehow managing to keep eye contact the whole time. There was an obvious warmth to his gaze that was both startling and...really nice. And yet it was also making Clint’s heartbeat pick up. What in the actual fuck?    
  
Natasha’s eyes flickered briefly between the two of them. “Well, I should get to bed,” she said after a moment. “I’ll see you boys in the morning.”   
  
Clint waved at her, feeling suddenly giddy, and tried not to grin. “Night, Tasha.”    
  
Coulson nodded at her, which earned him a slightly bemused half smile, and then Nat was gone, the game room door whooshing shut behind her. Coulson almost immediately slumped against Clint’s side, his head finding Clint’s shoulder. “Oh thank _god_.”    
  
Clint automatically put his arm around Coulson, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to go through him at the feel of Coulson’s breath ghosting over his neck. “You okay?” he asked, rubbing light circles over the other man’s back. “No offense, but you kind of look like hell, Coulson.”   
  
“It’s Phil,” Coulson muttered, and Jesus, Clint was going to have a heart attack if this kept up, _honestly_. His neck was stupidly sensitive as it was; add that to his natural reaction to Coulson— _Phil_ —and he practically felt his knees turning to jelly. He’d definitely have been in trouble if he was standing. “And thanks.”   
  
Clint shrugged a little. “What are friends for?”    
  
Phil gave a small snort-type noise at that and shifted somewhat so his legs were tucked up next to him on the couch, his body pressed more firmly against Clint’s side.    
  
Clint had to admit, he had no real idea what was going on right now—but he found himself completely incapable of objecting, particularly with Phil nuzzling into his neck and practically _purring,_ for fuck’s sake. Christ, he was so far gone for this absurdly adorable man.    
  
At that thought Clint froze in surprise. Beg your fucking pardon, brain?   
  
Phil moved away from Clint’s neck to blink up at him in mild confusion. “Clint?” he said, blinking up at him. Clint felt his heart untwist a little.    
  
“Don’t you—“ he started, then paused when he realized his voice came out as hoarse as that of his grandma, who’d smoked at least a pack a day. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Don’t you...maybe want to go to bed?”   
  
At that he could’ve sworn he saw a slight twinkle of...something in Phil’s eye. Maybe affection, but also maybe reflected city lights. Who knew?    
  
Inexplicably, the question seemed to relax Phil a little again. “Oh,” he murmured, head dipping back to Clint’s shoulder because apparently Clint hadn’t had quite enough torture yet. “No, this is comfy. And my room is far from here. We’d have to walk to get there.” He said this last part very solemnly, as if walking would pose a serious problem for them. Clint was amused, but seeing as Phil was clearly so sleep deprived as to be nearly incoherent (sentences like that might be normal for some people, but Clint had known Phil for long enough to know that he just _didn’t_ talk like that), he had to admit that walking to Phil’s room probably would prove quite the obstacle.    
  
And...okay, maybe Clint was terrible, but at the moment the idea of cuddling with Phil on the couch indefinitely was a _very_ appealing one, if he was being perfectly honest. But…   
  
He poked Phil’s side lightly and tried very hard not to laugh when Phil jumped a little. He’d never even seen Phil get startled, let alone _jumpy_. “True,” he said, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, “but I don’t think your back will thank you if you spend the night on the couch.”   
  
Phil groaned and somehow managed to shift even closer into Clint’s side. Dear fucking god. “You’re usually much nicer to me than this, you know,” he muttered, sounding like he was trying to be irritated but didn’t really have the energy for it. 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Phil,” he pressed. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He also didn’t want to spontaneously combust, but that seemed somewhat beside the point. 

Phil made a sound that could really only be described as a huff. “ _ Fine _ ,” he said after a moment, sitting up. Well, pretty much. Clint nudged him gently until he could stand, then turned and held out his hand to help Phil up. “I didn’t even know you had a room here,” he commented once they were both vertical. “Where is it?”

Phil swayed a little on his feet, and without thinking Clint reached out and put his arm around his waist. It wasn’t until Phil’s eyes met his for the second time that night that he truly realized what he’d just done, and he felt his face heating again. “Um,” he said, oh-so-eloquently. He couldn’t manage to look away, and Phil’s eyes were distracting, damn it. “You should...put your arm around my shoulder. Don’t want you to fall.”

Phil nodded, slowly, and put his arm around Clint’s shoulder. “Two two,” he said. 

Clint frowned. “What?” He ran over the past minute or so in his head. “Oh. Twenty-two. Your room’s on the 22nd floor?” He steered them both towards the door, trying not to think too much. “Okay. Cool, cool. That’s actually not that far, we’re on the 23rd floor. No biggie.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint slapped a button on the wall and the door slid open. As they went through it, a thought occurred to him, and he chuckled to himself. Phil noticed. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked, turning his head to look at Clint again. Clint felt his pulse jump. Jesus. 

He forced himself to act natural. Considering the rest of his life, this was really not all that weird. Get it the fuck together, Barton. “I was just thinking--I have to get Agent Coulson to bed,” he said, stopping them in front of Tony’s elevator and jabbing the down button. He  _ really  _ didn’t think they could handle stairs, even if it was only one flight. “That is very much  _ not _ what I would’ve expected my next mission to be.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Phil was still rolling his eyes at Clint when they walked into it.

* * *

Phil's room was...surprising. Clint wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't exactly it. 

First of all, it was dark--and not just because it was midnight. The walls were painted a deep blue, and there were blackout curtains covering the windows. The floor was soft, charcoal grey carpet, and even the bed (which had to be a queen--not that Clint was paying any attention to that...) was contained in what looked a mahogany bedframe and covered with a comforter the same shade as the walls. Weird, but...he could actually totally see wanting to come here after an op. He was just standing barely inside the doorway and it was relaxing. 

Phil was sitting on the end of the bed, his suit jacket and tie next to him, shoes just in front of him on the floor, and frankly Clint was having a hell of a time not just standing there staring at him. He was failing pretty miserably, but whatever. It was the thought that counted, right?

Phil caught him looking and smiled at him, leaving Clint to wonder if he was actually psychic. "Can you come here?" he asked softly. Clint genuinely wanted to say _something_ , but since his brain seemed to have clocked out, he just nodded slightly and wordlessly went over to the bed. He had the weird sense that this was important, this was a big fucking deal, but he wasn't sure where it was coming from, so he tried not to think about it. The last thing they needed was Clint's fight-or-flight reflex kicking in. 

Once he was standing in front of the bed, Phil reached out and grabbed his wrist. Clint had actually always had a bit of a thing about Phil's hands, even back before he'd really been attracted to the guy. They were surprisingly large, while also somehow managing not to be out of proportion with the rest of him, and, on the few occasions Clint and Phil's hands had had reasons to touch, Clint was always slightly taken aback by how they seemed both rough and soft at the same time. At the moment, though, he didn't have time to reflect on Phil's hands or his own baffling fixation on them, because all of a sudden Phil was saying, "No, I mean, come  _here_ ," and tugging on his wrist, and Clint was so not expecting that that his only option was to fall forward onto the bed-- _Phil's_ bed--half on top of the other man. 

Clint honestly couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or kiss Phil senseless. He compromised by saying (not even remotely breathlessly, thank you very much), "So, how long has it been since you last slept, again?"

Phil chuckled. "Wednesday night." 

Clint felt his eyes snap open wide. " _Seriously_? Christ, Phil."

Phil shrugged, which couldn't have been easy or comfortable since they were both lying on their sides. "We were busy. It happens." His smile faded, leaving behind exhaustion and a fair amount of the intensity Clint had been feeling before. Clint's brain chose that moment to remind him that Phil still had hold of his wrist, and his heart picked up pace for what felt like the millionth time that night. This could not possibly be good for his health.

"Not to be...I mean, you're not in any way obligated to say yes, but..." Phil paused, looking unsure of himself for the first time in Clint's memory. Clint felt his eyebrows lift, and Phil bit his lip. "I...well. If you wouldn't...object, it would be nice if you could, possibly...stay?" 

Clint froze in surprise. Stay? Hmm. He tried to think it through logically--it seemed to be a completely platonic request, and if Phil really hadn't slept in three days sex was definitely not an option anyway. Which actually was a bit of relief, because the last thing Clint wanted would be for Phil to think that he just wanted to hook up with him. Because, okay, yes, he'd thought about sleeping with Phil before, kind of a lot, actually, but...he didn't want  _just_ sex. 

Then again, if it was truly a 100% platonic request and Clint agreed to it anyway, that definitely made him a masochist. But hell, what else was new?

"Okay," Clint said, accidentally interrupting Phil's nervous rambling (which was absolutely fucking  _adorable_ , he noted absentmindedly). Phil just stared at him. "Okay," Clint repeated, just in case he hadn't actually said it out loud the first time. Phil still looked mildly shell-shocked.

"Okay," he finally echoed. After a moment, he tugged on Clint's wrist again, pulling him in closer, and Clint's heart stuttered as he shifted his body forward.  

Yeah,  _definitely_ a masochist. 

 


End file.
